Oscar Wilde once famously quipped that a cynic knows the price of everything and the value of nothing. Dark attitudes exemplified by cynicism currently pervade the western world, with an almost complete breakdown of trust in institutions like government and the media. Belief that those in authority could fairly and competently manage important affairs without narcissistic self-interest seems like a fairy tale today, and that was already true prior to the onset of the utterly brutal and toxic politics of the past four years in America and elsewhere.

Judaism has never been cynical about human life, perhaps because it could not afford to be. The Jewish people have a long history of black humour in response to persecution, and a kind of steely suspicion about whether world events will turn out “well for the Jews” but underpinning all of this ostensible negativity was a feeling that someday, somehow, there will be a world worth saving and redeeming.

Into this atmosphere of skepticism, enter Chanuka, which in pre-modernity was seen by many Jews as fairly insignificant in the scheme of Jewish holidays. It has no canonical Scripture attached to it, like for instance Megillat Esther or, of course, the Torah itself. Gustav Gottheil, a nineteenth century Reform rabbi, stated in 1884 that “the customary candles disappear more and more from Jewish homes.” Yet these days, Chanuka appears to be one of Jewry’s most widely observed holidays, with the inevitable comparisons to Christmas and the unstoppable commercialization of the sacred.

Whether it is because of “mandatory” gift giving or latke eating, the Festival of Lights has risen to the top of the charts, but I do not wish to sound like the grinch who stole Chanuka. There are significant reasons to view Chanuka as a celebration whose time has truly arrived, and at the top of this list are the way that it reminds us of the value of light in our lives, whether the spark is derived from candles, oil, or emotional insight and belief in the future.

Though in not a few Jewish homes, Shabbat candles are kindled each week, the glow of the menorah has a special power, one that binds families together and communicates a message of love and faith in a culture where despair has become routine. A pair of significant laws that govern this mitzvah reenforce the symbolism of the act. One is the fact that in its ideal state—that is, weather permitting–the menorah is supposed to be lit outside, sending the news to the whole world of an ancient miracle, that in the midst of oppression, there is always light that can be found.

The second halacha refers to a dispute between the disciples of two 1st century sages, Hillel and Shammai, and brings into sharp relief what is at stake in the law’s decision regarding what would be seem to be a trivial detail, that of the number of candles that should burn each night. Beit Shammai’s position is that we begin with the maximum number of candles – eight – and then diminish by one each night until we end up with but a single light on the last night of Chanuka. The perspective of Beit Hillel is the reverse – that we start with one and work our way up to eight. Given that according to both opinions the overall number of candles lit over the course of the holiday is identical, what real difference does it make in what order we proceed?

But as the Talmud notes, in deciding that the law follows the School of Hillel, we wish to “increase in holiness” each night. Put another way, we are trying each day of our lives to bring more and more light into the world, an unfashionable notion in an age of cool detachment and cynical resignation, but one that holds the key to all of our futures. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks of blessed memory, who passed away on November 7, noted that “Chanukah candles are the light Judaism brings to the world when we are unafraid to announce our identity in public, live by our principles and fight, if necessary, for our freedom.”

Finally, the lights represent an outlook of hope. One might argue that hope is naïve when so much in our lives often seems subject to indifferent and at times malevolent forces out of our control, but Rabbi Sacks was always careful to distinguish between hope, which he saw a primary Jewish value, and optimism, which he viewed as a rather lazy outlook: “Optimism and hope are not the same. Optimism is the belief that the world is changing for the better; hope is the belief that, together, we can make the world better. Optimism is a passive virtue, hope an active one. It needs no courage to be an optimist, but it takes a great deal of courage to hope.”

In a similar vein, one of the loveliest prayers in any language is called “Muhammad’s Prayer of Light”, which talks about our bodies and our souls as vessels of transcendence:

O God, give me light in my heart
and light in my tongue
and light in my hearing
and light in my sight
and light in my feeling
and light in all body
and light before me
and light behind me.

O God, increase light within me
And give me light and illuminate me.

Whether it is a menorah, or Shabbat candles, or a torch in the basement, or headlights on a dark road, we know that ultimately it is the love we give, the compassion we bestow, the forgiveness we offer, the patience we exhibit, that is the real source of illumination in a fragile and fractured world. In the end, our lives are the light.